Faster Than the Speed of Chemo
by OurShame
Summary: Charles has a brain tumor. Erik tries to be a good roommate. Of course there is a load of failure.
1. Congratulations

So this is edited. Yay, right? Strange, right? Give thanks, and worship, and tears to our fantatic new Beta, Greta! Fucking amazing and clean. :)

* * *

><p>Chapter 1: Congratulations<p>

* * *

><p>I have a brain tumor.<p>

That's what the doctor just said. I imagine him smiling, and giving me a ribbon reading 'congratulations'.

It's a tumor that grows from time to time as well. The best sort of tumor, the grand prize, the Pulitzer, the Eisenhower, the Oscar of all tumors. Meaning I have cancer. Cancer. Astrologically, I'm a Cancer. Now I have cancer, too. Pronouncing it with more of a "k" sound seems appropriate, more shocking right?

"Do you need some time alone?" Before leaving, the good man politely points out the tissue box covered in red-cheeked Santas. Maybe _he_ just needs some time alone. And it must be hard to do this all day long. Ruining people's lives, and whatnot.

Maybe I should cry. That seems more appropriate than planning out my next class with the Community College kids. Seems more appropriate than wondering if my brief on the genome will be informative as well as thrilling, and might even inspire some of the younger kids in the class to dedicate their lives to science, thus improving the human condition.

But I don't cry.

Cancer.

Did I TiVo The Amazing Race?

_Cancer._

Need to tell Raven that mom's package arrived, with all those horrid Swedish cookies she likes from IKEA.

Tumor.

I really ought to get the light bulb in the fridge replaced.

_Fuck_.

Will I lose my hair?

* * *

><p>You'd think they would call call you cab after the whole ordeal, or least sit you down and force you to call your mother. I couldn't even bring myself to ask about the prognosis. Walking these three blocks has never felt worse. And it's really my fault, I could have called Raven or Hank or even Erik, and any of them would gladly come fetch me and take me home.<p>

Maybe the walk is a good thing. I pick up some groceries from a produce stand, and meet a lovely oriental lady who keeps calling me 'Doctor Who'. And most importantly, I come up with a good excuse to where I was for my flat mate.

* * *

><p>"There's this new flavor of frozen yogurt at that place, you know, down the street. And the line was monstrous. I waited a good two hours for a flavor described as chocolate dipped watermelon. It may have been possible genius, but probably not. At least it was free, right?"<p>

"Sounds terrible." Erik then resumes watching television, seemingly entranced by a program featuring people in real life doing sort of real things while never having to go to work or school, or talk to their parents, or deal with brain tumors.

"Right. Absolutely horrid. Couldn't tell them that though. It seemed like the shop owner really thought it was a fantastic idea."

"That sounds like you. Your altruistic ways devolving mankind slowly into taste deprived monkeys." He's bought it. "Want me to cook tonight?"

"Isn't that a bit domestic for you?"

Erik shrugs his shoulders, and takes the groceries from my hands. "Since your sudden transformation into a menopausal woman, I wouldn't want you to get dizzy and end up with your face in a pan."

"It's not that bad." I hope he doesn't notice the way my voice breaks. "I mean, really, it's just a passing thing."

"Yeah, after the first few weeks of your pregnancy the vomiting should stop as well," he adds.

I laugh. The image of Mr. Ed, after crushing a small animal underneath is hooves while laughing maniacally surfaces in my thoughts, and I immediately stop. I need to stop. Erik is quick about these sorts of things, and I'm acting as though I'm hiding a body. Or, you know, a brain tumor. "What the hell was that?" he asks, already aware that something is off.

"Just a little sleep deprived. Stayed up all night studying."

"Or doing drugs..." Erik says, more to himself than me. He looks at me. This is disconcerting - this is not the impersonal and generally lighthearted Erik that is usually around, this is the dead serious one. The one who is a bit melodramatic and bit tragic, but full of genuine concern. "Did you get dumped or something? Failed a test? Realized being professor sucks?"

"I told you, late night of mathematic calculations. And there was a really horrible marathon of Jersey Shore that I just couldn't turn off." I need to get out of here. "Call me when dinner's ready, okay?"

He nods and I dash across the floor into my room, where I proceed to tear printer paper into strips for thirty minutes, and when dinner is finally ready, I have no appetite. And all the symptoms suddenly make sense.

The hindsight bias starts to kick in, and I should have known, or at least suspected. Constant nausea. The flickering white lights in my left eye followed by migraines, that had been my right lobe trying to warn me something was wrong. Lack of concentration and forgetfulness came along with the tumor. I had assumed it was stress, with graduation fast approaching. But I had barely been able to pick up a textbook, and being twenty five years old, I should be able to bench like four or five of those suckers, heavy as they are.

Yes, all the signs had been there, and I missed them all.

* * *

><p>"You don't like my food?" Erik asks, looking at my untouched plate.<p>

I shake my head, and take a sizeable scoop of the peas. "Three years of eating it and it's almost bearable."

"Good. Wouldn't want to spoil you." He smiles, and God damnit, it always throws me. I try another bit of peas, and it goes down fine. "Well, anymore," he adds.

Feeling a bit braver, I try the grilled chicken. It's plain and bland. No butter. No nothing. Erik likes the illusion that we are poor. Well, he is, and he just won't let me pay for anything. "Ready for class tomorrow?" I ask.

"I suppose. You gave me an 'A' right?"

"Only because you deserved it." The chicken stays down, and now I'm confident enough to try the salad.

"You rounded it up a whole point," he points out.

This time I smile, and I'm sure there is lettuce stuck between my teeth. "Well, you weren't able to attend the last lecture, with that welding job uptown, so I thought it would be a bit-"

Unfair. Really. This all is.

Then I'm up and dashing towards the bathroom, and I ignore my plate hitting the floor, sending bits of that thick plastic cheap table wear is made of and food everywhere. The bathroom is downstairs, right next to the front door, and it's never really been inconvenient (at least when sober) up until now.

Even after I empty the contents of my stomach, the heaving carries on. "You okay?" Erik asks from behind me.

Obviously not. "I'm terrific," I retort. It echoes throughout the toilet bowl, and I'm a little pissed that Erik hasn't cleaned it like I asked him to. "I'm fabulous."

He sighs and marches out of the bathroom. I'm tempted to rest my forehead against the seat, and just fall asleep. "Go see a fucking doctor," Erik huffs, and I almost laugh.

* * *

><p>"Open on page 154, and look at the second diagram." Opening the book myself, I don't look at them. I just can't. It's horrifying really, all their eyes trained on me. Luckily, the community college has relatively small classes. "Magnificent, isn't it?" I comment, looking at the diagram of the gene.<p>

"Riveting, really," Erik mutters.

"Please refrain from interrupting me, Mr. Lensherr." I see Sean drop his hand to his lap. "Oh, no. It's not like that. Go ahead Sean."

"I was just wondering what time you're doing the study group Wednesday?" Wednesday. Wednesday is the day I have to go back to the doctor to discuss the options. Or, maybe, he'll tell me there's been some mistake. Maybe he'll say there was a mix-up with the scans, or the tumor is benign, or maybe, it's some physical manifestation of a superpower, like telepathy.

Probably not.

"Actually, we will have to move it to Thursday. I have some unforeseen things to attend to." I wish Erik didn't look so surprised, or that Raven hadn't decided that waitressing wasn't a career, and joined the class I would be TAing. Or that Hank, my lab partner, decided he wants to see me in action.

"What are you doing then, Charles?" Raven never raised her hand, no matter how much I insisted. I didn't want anyone to think I favor her (even though I do). "You've haven't mentioned anything."

Why would she assume I'd tell her? (though, normally, I tell her everything). "Nothing important. Some school stuff. I need to finish a paper."

"We had a paper?" Hank looks confused, and a bit terrified. "I don't remember anything? Oh no, don't tell me-"

"Oh, no. It's for my seminar on how the apple in the Garden of Eden was most likely a pomegranate." Yes, the one class we are not taking together. My head starts aching with the effort to mind trick them into believing me.

Alex laughs. "Sounds pretentious as fuck."

"And irrelevant," Darwin adds.

"That's graduate school for you." My chuckle sounds more like a giggle. I think I might be losing it. And why isn't Moira here? She's the one who gets paid to teach. "Well, let's finish up with the current chapter and then we'll end early."

Each page goes by at the speed of my own stumbling consciousness. And I try not to look up as I'm talking at first, but than realize that would be out of the ordinary for me, so, I spend my time looking at students, at Angel, and sometimes at Sean, because they probably wouldn't pick up on any strange behavior. At one point, I read the same sentence from my notes three times, but luckily nobody says anything.

* * *

><p>"God, I'm exhausted." Erik stretches his arms over his head. "Gotta nap before work. What're you up to tonight?"<p>

"Just going to look through some pa - oh, God, I need to buy Raven her birthday present still." I stop in my tracks and shake my head, and somebody bumps into me on the busy sidewalk.

"Yeah, about that. Need help with that surprise party on Thursday?"

"What party?"

"The one that's a surprise." Erik looks at me. "It is a party, right? That's why you moved the class?"

Oh. Now I get it. "Oh, yes the surprise party. Yes, I'll need help." A lot of fucking help.

For the first time since I met Erik three years ago, I hate him for being so sharp. He figured out I was gay the first week we knew each other, and that I was closeted Trekkie the second. But mostly, I hate him for dropping the subject. It makes the three blocks back to our apartment seem awkward. He's such a drama queen.

Hawaiian seems a little prepubescent. But Vegas comes off as trashy. Maybe a costume party? No, Hank would wear his Einstein costume and Erik has overdone the Bond getup. We could do a hospital theme, where the girls are naughty nurses, and the men are, well… never mind.

I decide on just buying a keg and telling everyone we are suffering through a Tart and Vicars bash. Twenty-one and a keg seems appropriate. Inviting all her friends through mass texts and emails is easy enough, and so is booking out the little bar on the corner. But getting Erik off my back is hard, and it takes me to almost thirty minutes before my appointment with the good doctor to convince him he should go pick up the keg.

"So, about my chances?" That sounds weird. Chances. The last time I asked that was when I was interviewing for my Teaching Assistant position.

Doctor Shaw looks like he's done this a lot, and I'm amazed he can stay so sincere. "It's good. Well, for cancer, anyway." Good. Good. This is good. "To put it bluntly, there's a fifty-fifty recovery rate in other patients with similar to yourself in terms of treatment, age, sex, tumor size, etcetera. That's really great news, considering that we caught it pretty early."

Yes, great news. Great. Tony the Tiger great. The U.K. dominating the world of football great. The idea of making our Tarts and Vicars surprise party gender swapped great. "Great."

* * *

><p>"We will have to start treatment immediately."<p>

"Great."

The doctor lays out all of the possible routes to go, experimental treatment, the schedule, the side effects, surgery, other hospitals and clinics, support groups, breaking the news to family and friends, insurance issues, payment plans, how to prepare for treatment and things to avoid. He hands me a pamphlet so I don't forget, than pats my shoulder when I get up. "Fifty-fifty is great news."

* * *

><p>Review. Please. I means more people will read my brainwash.<p> 


	2. laughing at the blind

**Alright, it's my turn. thanx for reviewing and even reading. appreciate any feedback, crazy or otherwise. it keeps us motivated and bigheaded. which makes for good writing. **

* * *

><p>There's only one entrance in this place. Of course there's the backroom entrance just behind the counter, but the effort to get there wouldn't be worth the revelation that it probably leads to a dead end. That just leaves the entrance in the front. No windows and far too many people. Probably somewhere around twenty in this cramped space. But that's just a guess.<p>

Malls always did make my skin crawl.

What do you even buy a 21 year old that has it all? I just came to the bookstore out of habit. I don't even know Raven all that well. Just what Charles has told me and what I've gathered from our interactions. She's smart, but not obviously so. She's attractive, which she is very conscious of.

But her passions and interests? Didn't seem all that important.

I turn round a bookshelf and stumble into the medical section. The doctor pictures on the covers make me rub my jaw. But goddamn it because it shows weakness. And weakness is unacceptable. Scanning the merchandise, a title catches my eye. **50 Cocktail Recipes and Hangover Remedies**.

Educational.

Practical.

Humorous.

Perfect.

I'm sure she'll appreciate it, and Charles, that faggot, will benefit from it as well.

My feet are tapping. I'm giving the people, about six in this line, annoyed looks. It's been a good ten minutes and I'm kicking myself for not allowing for more shopping time. I get up to the register and the cashier looks as annoyed as I do. Probably because he's the only one working in this damned store and it's packed. Probably because people have been giving him hell. His pose is completely defensive, his shoulders squared and face tilted downward.

"Hello sir would you like to apply for a store credit card and get twenty percent off your purchase?" It's mumbled.

"No, thank you."

"That'll be twenty, fifty-seven."

I hand over the cash. It's exact. I don't even wait for my receipt and stroll out hurriedly. I only have fifteen minutes to get downtown and class was going to start soon.

* * *

><p>I love motorcycles. The pure adrenaline rush and power boarders on animalistic. It's intoxicating. So are the vibrations that travel up my arms from the internal combustion engine. So is weaving in and out of traffic at law-breaking speeds just so I can get to a biology class.<p>

Ridiculous.

Luckily law enforcement seems lax in this city unless it involves life and death or anything overly dramatic that can become fodder for a rotten reality show.

Oh. Just ran a red light. Good thing traffic in this goddamned place never moves.

Thanks to that I'll get there with two minutes to spare. Adequate time to make a mad dash toward room 302. The flow of those numbers is soothing. 302. Just rolls right off the tongue.

Someone's parked in my spot. Gonna have to confront one of the neighbors.

Now I have to search for parking and cut off a good minute from my two. Good thing I've spent every morning since I turned fourteen jogging. My legs were built for situations like this. Three blocks in one minute? I always did love a challenge.

Sprinting feels good. Gets my limbs pushing their boundaries. Makes me stronger. Relieves my stress.

I'm actually quite impressed with myself. I made it three blocks, two hallways, and one corner in a minute and 15 seconds. Right on time.

"Hey Erik." Raven waves for me to sit to her right, what with Hank already at her left. "That was cutting it pretty close, what were you doing?" My panting's pretty heavy.

"Just getting in my daily exercise." She smiles, and it's absolutely beautiful. "Least I beat Charles. Where is he anyway?"

"Yeah, I don't know, usually he's here prepping for class a good thirty minutes prior, but, I don't know, wouldn't even give me a ride." She looked over at hank and smiled. "Hank had to give me a ride in his Honda."

The damn boy blushed. Actually blushed. It's disgusting. "No problem, you were on the way anyway."

Grow a backbone.

"Sorry, I'm late class I had some business to attend to." Speak of the devil. He looks shaken. Voice sounds tight. A little like last night.

Wonder what's eating him this time. Haven't seen him like this since I caught him watching Star Trek: The Next Generation in his boxers. That was embarrassing for both of us.

He rushes to put down his books and bag, his fingers shaking in their hurriedness. Looks like a cold animal. "Open your books to 154, and look at the second diagram illustrating the gene". The sound of pages turning fills the room and a picture of a double helix stares back up at me. "Delightful, isn't it?"

I snort. "Riveting, really."

"Please refrain from interrupting me, Mr. Lansharr. Oh, no. It's not like that. Go ahead Sean."

"I was just wondering what time you're doing the study group Wednesday?" I decide to ignore Charles's shortness at the moment. Most likely he's suffering from his girlish constitution. I know I am.

"Actually, we will have to move the day to Thursday if that can work with the majority. I have some unexpected things to take care of." That catches my attention. Far as I knew Charles had absolutely nothing to do Wednesday.

"What are you doing than, Charles? You've haven't mentioned anything."" Raven says. It's very frank of her. I like it.

"Nothing important. Some school stuff, need to finish a paper." Bullshit.

"We had a paper? I don't remember anything, oh shit, don't tell me-" I start cringing from the desperation in Hank's tone. Really, it's too much.

"Oh, no. It's for my seminar on how the apple in the Garden of Eden was most likely a pomegranate."

That's a lie. He was too hesitant, doesn't even look like he believes it himself. But Hank and the others aren't as perceptive as me. They haven't lived with Charles for three years. Except Raven, but like I said, perception is key.

"Sounds pretentious as fuck." Yes, yes it does.

"And irrelevant."

"That's graduate school for you." Now I'm sure he's lying. His manic giggles are like a polygraph.

"Well, let's finish up with the current chapter and then we'll end early." He's avoiding my eyes. I can feel the annoyance rise up, but it's soon sated with genetic jargon and alleles. Recessive alleles and dominant ones. Widow's peak and green eyes are recessive. Too bad for me. If I want offspring that will resemble me, the safest course would be to mate with a woman with the same attributes. But, a widow's peak on a woman doesn't seem all that attractive. That leaves out my hairline.

Too bad, would've made my children all the more attractive.

* * *

><p>I walk with Charles out of room 302. The air's nice.<p>

"God, I'm exhausted." I stretch up my arms, feeling the truth of the statement. Maybe that sprint was a bad idea. Maybe I should've actually sprung for a parking permit at the school. "Nap before work, I guess. What you up to tonight?" I figure I might as well start digging. I want to know what's up with the lying routine.

"Just going to look through some pap-oh, god-I need to buy Raven her birthday present still." He gets bumped by another student. No one ever bumps into me.

"Yeah, about that. Need help with that surprise party on Thursday?"

"What party?" That throws me. I'm pretty sure that's what this was all about.

"The one that's a surprise." I'm giving him a condescending look. He just looks confused. "What the hell are you doing on Wednesday then?"

"Oh, yeah the surprise party. Yeah, I'll need help." He looks away, brooding like the theatrical individual he is.

Our steps are almost match for match. His strides seem reluctant though. The conversations been dropped and he doesn't try to say anything more. Neither do I.

I have nothing to say.

* * *

><p>I brush sweat off my face. The heat from the tungsten electrode is stifling. So is the slow pace that I have to work at for safety reasons. But that's the price you pay for being qualified enough to use a GTAW process.<p>

Lorna's working a few benches away. "How long have you been here Lorna?"

"Uhh, since two I think." She's welding together two crossbeams.

"Take a break damnit. Don't need you collapsing on the torches. This place can't handle anymore workers' comp."

"I'm fine. Stop acting all fatherly. It doesn't suit you." She smiles and it lifts my heart a bit. She reminds me of Ruth.

"Suit yourself. I'm not squeamish. Perfectly fine with scraping your face off that metal."

She turns off the torch. "Ah, fine." She rips off her mask and gloves.

"Glad you saw it my way."

" Jesus, you manage us better than Arty." Joseph comes up from behind and hands me a bottle of water.

"I'm a natural leader, they should promote me." It's a joke. But I actually mean it.

"Don't get such a big head." He pats me on the back and goes back to work. "You're off in ten right? Have a goodnight."

"Yeah you too. Make sure Lorna doesn't run herself into the ground." I strip off my gloves and clean up the bench.

When I get home Charles is in his room. I walk over and open the door.

"Hey watcha-"

"Ah, your home." He jumps and quickly closes his laptop. That's suspicious.

"What are you looking at Charles?"

"Nothing of import."

I cross my arms.

"Goodnight, Erik." The tone is forceful. Very unlike Charles. I walk out and toward my own room.

Probably porn anyway. Or even worse.

One of Alex's research papers.

* * *

><p>"A vicars and tarts party?"<p>

"Yes. And I was thinking that it could be switched around, just to give it that extra zap." I roll my eyes.

"Figures you'd change up the gender norms."

"Well Erik, I am after all just dying to dress up like a tart." It's obviously sarcastic. Probably true on some level though.

"What bar are we getting? That Irish place down the street's pretty good, but I doubt they'd welcome a bunch of gussied up coeds."

"Thought of that already. I booked an alcove at a club on 2nd and West. Not too far, and the location promises an array of individuals for flirtation purposes." His brows are going crazy in an up and down motion that's supposed to be suggestive.

"They alright with the keg?"

"Yep, long as we pay a small deposit for it."

"You certainly are prepared."

"Well it is my sister's birthday. Can't let her down on the big two-one." His voice sounds strained again.

"….what'd you get for her?" It's a superficial attempt at keeping the conversation going.

"Hmm? Oh, that's a surprise." He chuckles.

"Can't wait." I settle back into the couch and let it go. I'm not going to indulge him with curiosity. Plus, it would imply that I actually care.

I search through the recordings on our TiVo, glad for this one luxury. Surprised at how I lived so long without satellite.

"Oh god Erik, not another WWII documentary."

"I deal with your obsessions." I gesture toward the poster of Albert Einstein that's framed above the fireplace. "Grant me the same leniency."

He huffs in annoyance, but drops the complaints. "The year is 1939, and war is rising within Eastern Europe…." I don't know why I love these programs so much. My dad collected Nazi memorabilia. I used to wear around the arm bands until mom caught me and started yelling. She told me never to do it again. Nazi's were terrible people.

I focus on the program. I hate thinking about her. It's sentimental, weak. And I am not weak.

"Erik, please turn that off? The genocide is starting to make me feel depressed."

I oblige. Didn't like where my thought were going anyway. I switch over to an episode of Expedition Impossible.

"With the gypsies ahead once again…."

"Why do you like this show so much?"

"You should give it a try Charles; take a break from the Amazing Race. This is infinitely better."

"Why? You like seeing men and women conquer the elements and persevere over odds? Sounds awfully inspiring. Sounds ….like it's been done."

"You mistake my reasons, Charles. I just like laughing at the blind guy."

* * *

><p><strong>tell us watcha think. stay tuned for the next instalment of <em>faster then the speed of chemo<em>**


	3. Some Panties

**Sorry for the ultra delay. I was moving. It took a lot of time. Classes started. They took up a lot of time. And I hope you enjoy this either way. Please Review. **

Chapter Three: Some Panties

Death is inevitable, but distant enough not to seem like a true probability. Yeah, comfortable. That's the way I wanted to keep it for a few more years. I was okay with that denial. The same way I was okay with denying the inevitable cancellation of Firefly, as long as I didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't going to happen. Took me by surprise.

And as I pondered death, I shifted through the tub of ladies underwear completely fascinated with the image of Erik in tights. "Sir, do you need any help?"

"Just shopping for my girlfriend." She knows that it's a lie, and it's the light British influence on my accent, hair that's obviously way too neat and the sweater vest paired with Oxford flats that give it away. A gay man buying panties. "Actually, I may need a little help."

She smiles politely, all dimples and freckles. Only the way she shifts from foot to foot tells me she's nervous. I don't even have to be a telepath.

"What's the best way to tell your closest friends you may have brain tumor that may just, well, kill you?"

"Uh." Poor girl looks blown away, and her eyes are bulging. I'm wringing a pink thong in anticipation. She's sweating. "Is this some sort of secret shopper test? Cause this seems pretty harsh if it is, and fucked, and dear Lord-"

"No, not a test. Serious, hypothetical question. Just tell me what you would say?"

This time her smile is no longer polite, it's slightly off and shows way too many teeth. I know she will tell all her friends about the crazed Brit, homosexual panty fiend. "Well, if I thought I was going to live I'd break it too them over tissues, and well, prepare them for it, ya know." Now she's getting into it. "Hint at it beforehand. But if I thought it was going to be one of my last acts on Earth, I'd make it unforgettable, right. Like surprise them. Write it in the sky with airplane smoke, sort of surprise.

I think of my mother's shocked face. Besides the insensitive nature of it all, it could be funny. Far enough. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"Will that be all?" After checkout I'm going to have to tell her manager of what a insightful employee that's on staff. I then hold up two pair of slightly oversized panties. "What do you think is my color?"

* * *

><p>Immediately I decide that this is not the right time to reveal my cancerous secret at the beginning of my study group. Hank already looks devastated. "It's good to see you all."<p>

Indefinite murmurs answer me from a chorus of exhausted undergraduates. The whole class is present. I'm the only TA who agrees to holding optional study sessions. Don't understand why though. I adore it. "It's only two weeks into class, and your already resenting me. Rather pathetic, isn't it?"

"You mean ain't it." Alex corrects me. I'd say challenge from any other person, but I know he's trying to Americanize me. Honestly, besides the accent and the love of football, I'm already there.

"Ain't it?" And so two hours of reading drafts with grammar that was apparently, Americanized, and questions that could of been answered by actually reading the chapter began.

Erik handed me his draft. "This is unusual. Thought me editing it was cheating?"

"There's been a lot of unusual activities taking place lately." He shrugged.

I started skimming his paper, and my feet feel sweaty. What a joke of a nervous tick. Sweaty feet. "Like what?"

"Hm. Just a feeling I can't shake." So he didn't see my computer screen last night. What's more pathetic than getting a brain tumor in your twenties? Searching 'life expectancy of twenty something cancer inflicted'. Than following that search with 'cheap and flirty party games for kegger'. Wouldn't wish that on anybody. "Plus I need you to do all the heavy lifting in the paper, with all the doubles I've been doing at the slave house, haven't had time to even sleep not to mention revise."

I nod my head, and let my eyes wander from the paper long enough to view my sister flirting with my long time lab partner. Dear Lord, Hank, escape now before those curves and pouty lips are the only thing you see after your eyes close. "It's probably good enough even without my help. Your quite smart, Erik."

"Either way, I'd rather have the expert's opinion." He smirks, and it kills me a little. God, why isn't he gay? "Your mother called."

Mother. Mom. Mommie. Shit.

"What did she say?" Haven't even thought about telling her. "More like want?"

Break her poor heart. "Something about how you never call, and how she wishes for a son like me." How could she possible come to terms with this? "One whose handsome, and considerate, and charming." I can't even come to terms with it.

"So a son who she's sexual attracted to?"

"More or less." He snatches the paper out of my hand, and leans over the table. The whisper tickles my ear. "So are strippers appropriate for this party?"

I sigh. "Too expensive for Raven's taste. Feels ashamed we have money. Have to keep the entertainment cost low."

"I suppose we can just strip ourselves." Only if it's just you and me. Alone.

"Your unintentional incestual comments are becoming relatively a bore. Try harder."

"Oh, I can try harder. You bet-"

"Jesus Christ, please just edit my paper Charles." Darwin pushed in front of Erik. "Isn't living together enough?"

No. It really isn't

* * *

><p>After thirty minutes of being home alone looking at chemo related horror stories on the internet, I break into the liquor cabinet and become acquainted with some whiskey. It all catches up and I'm laying in my boxers on the couch sipping at the fourth and best tasting glass of the night.<p>

I'm almost certain drinking is not recommended before start of treatment, but is some sort of requirement as well as a health risk. It's okay, I'll vomit it all out later.

"Charles, what's the occasion?" Erik walks through the door, his shirt sweat soaked and face smudged with grim from his welding gig. Dropping his bag, he sits on the far chair sighing deeply.

"It's winter solstice."

"Christmas has come early than."

I don't want to sound drunk. My words will not me slurred around him, and I will make sense. It's my mantra. "It's alwayss Christmess in the Xavier houssehold."

"I see." Erik takes off his shirt and throws it across the room before taking on the glasses conveniently placed on the coffee table and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "Too bad, I'm a Jew."

I laugh. "Your not even practicing."

He laughs, and takes a sip. "Once a Jew, always a Jew."

This is perfectly logical, so I nod in agreement.

"What brought out this?" Erik gestures to my state of undress, and probably to the half empty bottle. But who knows. "Nervous about your tart outfit? Scared it won't go over well? Ya, know the pink thong, and all."

I nod. Yes, that's all. "I'm very, very nervous about crossdressing cause I was planning on making it into a career choice or something. And if it fails, I'll have to become some sort of geneticist or professor or something else totally boring and without respect." Four glasses down, and I'm probably out for the count.

We stay silent for a while. Erik is probably tired, and my tongue is just heavy and numb. Couch is itchy, and my nakedness feels suddenly inappropriate. "Need water." I try to stand.

"Woah, hang on there, bro." His hand is steadying me from the lower half of my back. Than he pushes me back onto the coach. "I'll just get you a cup, how bout that?"

"Make sure the ice is crushed not cubed." I hate when he rolls his eyes like I won't remember later. "Oh, and used the filtered water from the fridge not the sink water."

"Whatever, princess." He'll probably hate it when I tell him I have a brain tumor, and just happened to not mention it till right now. I call out from across the apartment.

"Erik, what would you do if I told you I was dying?" I frowned. Somehow I have gained the ability to be be nondescript, as well as, not to completely choke at the mention of dying.

"Make sure that you would leave me your impending fortune. Considering I've cooked for you for three years, as well as cleaned up your vomit numerous times, I deserve a little dip into that trust fund of yours." The glass is cold. And the ice clinks together when he hands me it.

Far enough. "Oh, kay."

"Yeah, kay?" Erik sits back into his chair, and I think he's trying to read into my actions by staring. It's probably not working.

"Yes, kay."

"What's wrong, Charles?"

And even though I should tell him, and he really deserves to know cause as he says he has cleaned up vomit from the floor as well as my chin, I just can't. Plastered babble comes out instead. "I just don't know about this dissertation thing. I mean what if being a professor isn't my thing. I mean, I've been thinking like I might be meant for something, else ya know? Like maybe something more artistic and hand's on."

"What? Like pottery, or something?" Erik laughs. "That's was just so fucking gay, ya, don't even know." I frown. "Don't be a faggot, you were meant to teach people who don't really care about your class cause it just isn't relevant to everyday life. It's your thing."

"Thanks." I'm in love with him. Insulting me, and I'm in love with it all. "Wanna watch some TLC?"

"Right on." He gets up, and than plants himself next to me. "Let's watch people eat couch cushions. And at least put a shirt on. We don't need anymore naked man time than we have to."

* * *

><p>Women's panties are made to be uncomfortable. I've come to terms with this, because I have never had to wear them. The wedgy as well as the itchy material are constant reminders of my awful party planning, and my distasteful choice of themes. I could of been wearing the comfy priest getup, all black and linen and really quite a practical outfit. But Erik had to wear it to. Worth it. Maybe it's worth it. Maybe.<p>

"Charles, I don't understand why I have to wear a wig." I feel like I fit right in with my ear against my phone, and my feet navigating on there own down the busy sidewalk. Like a young professional on an important business call, that just happens to be really about crossdressing and how I love red wigs. "Isn't part of the humor of a man in a dress, is that it's a man in a dress?"

"Yes, but Raven would love it." And I would get a laugh out of it as well. Not a particularly kinky fellow, but I may dare to say, a boner as well. "So would all of her friends, and no, they are not stupid kids." An man with no legs, and a red wagon tied to the back of his electric wheelchair like a small parade float decorated with veteran memorable holds out his hat for money. "Some are rather smart, well, except for Sean. But he has a good personality. And nice hair." I give him a five. I don't really need lunch. "Anyway, you need a wig."

"I'm not paying for a wig."

I frown. "I'll pay for it."

"That's not how it works." Oh, great time to be macho. Over a wig. "I pay for my own shit. You, know having a job gives me that opportunity."

"If you are implying that I have never had a job-" My phone beeps, and I have another call from an unknown number. "Can you hold for second?"

Before he answers, I switch lines. "Hello, Charles Xavier speaking?"

"It's Sebastien Shaw." Never had I felt a chill at the mention of a name before until that moment. It's like death is calling me in a monotone voice, after probably chatting up some nurses and having a doughnut or two. "Just calling to confirm our appointment for Monday. Make sure your fifteen minutes early, and also, remember to stick to that special diet we had discussed earlier."

"Oh, well, yes." I feel a little ashamed as my clear violations from last night. "Thanks, Dr. Shaw, and-"

"And one more thing," My mumbles apparently don't matter. " Make sure your planning on transportation for outpatient care for Wednesday. We don't want to send you home after brain surgery in a taxi." Considering that was my plan, I don't join in on his little self indulgent laughter at his joke. "Have a good day, Mr. Xavier."

I hangup, on him, and Erik.

**End of Chapter Three. Review!  
><strong>


	4. what about your hair?

This is utterly ridiculous.

The whole thing is a not too clever attempt from Charles to get me into leather and fishnet. Not that I wouldn't look dashing in them, but this outfit just screams impractical. Not to mention that it'll attract a lot of unwanted attention.

I pull at the hot pants I'm wearing. The damned material wriggles into crevices better left alone. I've never been acquainted with the feel of a weggie before, having worn boxer briefs all my life. Not exactly pleasant.

I stare at the wig Charles roped me into getting. It's tacky, not at all convincing having been bought at the local Halloween shop. The red is candy apple and the strands feel like Easter basket grass. The cashier had given me a strange look too. One that not so subtly asked why a grown man was buying a red wig in November while also insinuating that I may be gay. I'm not.

I still bought it anyway. Who knows why I'm indulging Charles. He isn't deserving of it.

I face the mirror. It comes as a shock that I make such an ugly female. Guess my bone structure is too prominent to allow for the soft look that women carry in their faces. Not to mention that my legs are much too hairy and muscled to pull off these fishnet.

It's just so wrong.

Got to admit though, my ass looks nice. That's a given.

"Erik? Are you ready yet? I swear you're taking longer than Raven does when she ready for a date."

I square my shoulders. No worries, you look fabulous Erik, old boy, exactly how you always do. Just gayer.

God. Damn. It. I can't do this.

"Do you perhaps need some help with the panties? I'd be more than happy to assist you…."

"No need. Let's get this over with." Just another weakness to overcome. I open the door.

Charles eyes are bulging slightly and his mouth is parted in awe. How flattering. It certainly is nice to know that I can have this effect on people even in a wonder bra. Then again, maybe it's the wonder bra that's occupying the attention.

Either way, I inwardly sigh in relief.

"Charles, let's go. Stop standing there like an idiot." It's making me feel awkward because I'm enjoying it. What the shit.

"Ah, right." He visibly composes himself and I can't help the satisfied smile.

I give him a once over and laugh. It's just too much.

"Lace Charles? Couldn't you have gotten something less revealing?" His pale ass is practically hanging out.

"The girl at Victoria thought these would be best for my, uh, female friend."

"You have no female friends."

"I beg to differ, there's Moira, and, um, Raven-"

I give him a sidelong glance.

"Don't give me that look."

"Was this girl stupid? You practically radiate homosexual." And European. Weird how the two seem to go hand in hand.

"I suspect she noticed, but I must have distracted her-" He pauses. "Anyway she was too good natured to question my motives."

"Not enough to not gossip about you for the entirety of the coming week though." Probably lament her experience with the gay man shopping for thongs. I would die for something that funny to talk about at the company. Jason sure as hell would laugh.

"Quite."

We grab our coats and make our way down the stairs. I'm dreading bumping into any neighbors. It would only confirm apartment wide assumptions as to the nature of Charles and I's relationship. The two of us scantily clad. 'On their way to a gay bar for a date.' I'd think the same thing.

But we're not. And I'm not enjoying either of us being dressed like this.

"God damn it's fucking cold." Yet one of the reasons to loath this outfit.

"Yes, good thing. The trench coats really do pull the look together don't you think?" As if to prove his point some community kid catcalls us from across the street. Charles waves at him in a flirting way and the kid runs off.

"How insulting."

"Well can't speak for him but you probably aren't the best looking of the neighborhood prostitutes."

"And you are?"

"Obviously." I'm quite confident that I'm the most attractive person for the next six blocks.

Charles bites his lip and we continue on in silence.

I can feel him look at me from behind. Can't he be a bit more discreet? He better not be looking at my butt.

The club's neon spills over the dirty concrete in an unfriendly way. No windows and gratified brick and mortar.

Seedy. Just how Raven would like it.

"Nice location." Charles ignores me and walks through the soundproof door. Awful music buzzes through my skull. I think it's that Nikki Minaj character. Her ass is unbelievable. So is her music.

"Hey Professor!" Hank's getting up from a curtained alcove and waving franticly.

"Oh god Charles, why didn't you think about the consequences of seeing the other tarts?" Goddamnit. I hadn't even thought of that. And here's Hank in a skimpy leotard. Awful.

"I was much too concerned with seeing you as one." Charles dances away through the people grinding against one another before I can respond. Too bad, I had something to say to that.

"So, where's the woman of the hour?" Charles awkwardly hugs Hank.

"She went to the bathroom!"

"Stop shouting. We're right here." Honestly.

Hank looks up at me and takes a step back, taking in the wig.

"Is that you Erik?" he snickers. The prick. "Didn't recognize you."

Funny, I recognized him, and thought he looked completely at home in that getup.

I slide off the trench coat. "That was the point." Like I'd want anyone recognizing me in this.

"I certainly recognize you." Charles and I turn.

"Damn boys, look at those legs."

"Raven, what'd you do to your costume?" Hank sounds nervous.

"Yes Raven, you're supposed to be a vicar." Charles pouts.

"No offense Charles, but I refuse to cover myself up at a club. Besides," she tosses her hair around. I mustn't blatantly stare. "It's my birthday and I want some attention." What else could she want wearing a bustier and tight leather pants?

"Well you certainly have it." I smile suggestively, but then remember that this is Charles sister. Would complicate the rent if I pulled something. He gives me an annoyed look.

Raven laughs. "Yeah, well, mine is nothing compared to you guys. Look at the raised eyebrows you three are getting."

"We look like faggots." The hot pants are ridding up again. And the wig is itchy as hell.

"I think I look smashing." Charles sways his hips.

"You would." I frown at him.

"But Raven, a minute ago you were wearing…."

"Yeah, I wore this underneath and tossed the vicar outfit back into your car." She dangles some keys to a Toyota in front of Hanks face.

"When'd you…." Hank takes the keys.

"I have magic fingers." Raven gives him an evil little grin. I'm liking her more and more.

I scrath my head.

"Take that thing off, it's awful." Raven reaches up and tries to snatch the wig off the top of my head.

"Don't do that, he's never looked more beautiful." Charles grins at me.

"What're you, some dirty old man?" I throw the thing across the booth. End of discussion.

As we sit I survey the room. There are about fifty people on the small dance floor and six at the bar. Another three at a pool table in the corner. I dig through the pocket of the coat and pull out a gift wrapped mess. Never was good at aesthetics when it came to these things.

"Where'd you guys get all that stuff anyway?" Raven gestures to Charles leather top.

"Charles here already had most of it." I glance at him with a smile. "Just had to spring for the heels and wig."

"And my lovely panties."

"Eww, Charles." Raven looks horrified. If only she knew what I caught him looking at sometimes on the internet.

"Don't ask questions you aren't prepared to hear the answer too."

Raven starts swaying in her seat to some hiphop, dubstep remix of the techno remix, song blaring overhead. Going to have a goddamn headache tomorrow. Plus it smells of unwashed alcoholics. Not exactly potpourri.

"Glad to see we're not the most ridiculous looking of the group." Alex walks up with the rest of the party.

"You are pretty close though. A corset? Christ Alex, even we didn't go that far." Really glad Charles hadn't thought of that.

Sean, Angel, and Darwin sit round us. Darwin's donning modest booty shorts and a muscle shirt. Sean's in a see through mesh tank with a skirt that shows off way too much. And Angel, well, she's essentially dressed in her work outfit.

God damn this party theme.

God damn Charles.

"What the hell? Why are the guys the only ones that followed the dress code?" Alex sits down all disgruntled. "Where are the vicars?"

"Why, are you complaining about the view?" Angel leans forward dangerously.

"No, just seems unfair." Shit, the hot pants are riding up again. How can women stand this? Right, they don't have penises.

"Just ticked that we dressed as tarts for nothing."

I lean back and put an arm around Charles and Raven. "Not for nothing, least it's memorable. So where's this keg you were talking about Charles?" Alcohol. That's what we need. Cause in all honesty, I'm not sure if I want to remember the ginger hair on Sean's legs.

"Ah right, be back in a jiff." He springs up and goes up to the bartender. God, he's so damn pale he nearly glows in the lights.

The others chat akwardly while Raven figets with her hair.

"Have you noticed anything weird with Charles lately?" She whispers into my ear all of a sudden. Her breath makes hairs on my neck stand on end.

"I suppose. He's been a little jumpy and keeps disappearing without telling me where he's been." Not to mention talking about death. That was textbook definition weird.

"Yeah, same here. Keeps visiting me and looking at old pictures too."

"Maybe he's going through a midlife crisis." I laugh shallowly. "No worries, just focus on your party." Charles needs to stop making people worry, especially on their birthdays. He's probably just stressing over his school work. He's married to his dissertation.

"No problem." She turns away from me. Glad we're not talking about it anymore, gives me an, an almost worried feeling. "So where are all my gifts?" The chatter ceases as everyone pulls forth ribboned bags and small boxes. Mine looks inadequate. Who knows, if Raven's ashamed of money then maybe she'll appreciate the Spartan quality.

"Anyone order a keg?" Charles plops down next to Raven and kisses her on the forehead. Bout time. The men carrying it over stared, so would I.

"Ah shit! Excited to get plastered?" Sean looks fondly at the keg.

"Like it's the first time she's ever drank." Darwin winks at her.

"Having an older brother with a taste for liquor has assured that I am no novice when it comes to alcohol." She grabs for the nozzle.

"Maybe, but your taste is still horrendous." Charles helps her.

"Your taste isn't all that great either Charles. All you stock the apartment with is cheap scotch." Fucking dreadful.

"But Erik, all you like is whiskey and vodka, hardly my cup of tea."

"Your right, too rough for you." He'd puke it all out with that weak stomach.

"Oh, never my friend." He winks and the group laughs. His flirting's more inept then his appreciation for fine draughts.

Soon a server from the bar drops off a round of shots and the party's under way. The kids go shot after shot and I envy their enthusiasm, cause I don't seem to have much for anything other than welding. Now I'm sounding like I'm going through a midlife crisis. I need a girlfriend. Or at least sex.

I'm not sure if I should stop, but my face feels hot. Probably not enough since I'm still aware of my suffering libido.

Raven's digging through her presents, giggling at the array of Spencer sex toys and naughty cards. Having the humor of a twelve year old must be fantastic. She punches my arm when she opens mine. "Hangover remedies and cocktail recipes? Shit Erik, I won't even be able to look at this when I wake up. Gonna be way too hung-over." Her laugh is a staccato trill.

"D-don't worry raven, I'll take care of you." Hank leans against her, and gives her a peck on the cheek. Hank should be drunk all the time.

I lean back against the rubbery seat. That's how my legs feel right now. Rubbery. The seat squeaks as Charles scoots closer.

"Are you enjoying yourself my friend?" Now I am. The others have gone to dance off the alcohol. Charles and I sit here with it setting fire to our stomachs and veins. We're too old and bitter to fit in. Not to mention intelligent and handsome.

"Yeah, just shouldn't drive. Good thing we always walk everywhere."

"Does wonders for the butt."

"Sure does. You nice and plastered yet?"

"Getting close, maybe some more drinks are in order?" He raises his glass. I follow suit.

"Alright then" I pause for dramatic effect. "Here's to living a long life full of booze and friends." I clink Charles glass and down the bitter in one gulp. Damn I'm good. Charles stares into his, swirling it around.

"What up Charles? Drink. I tried especially hard to make up that cheesy toast, you better drink to it."

He smiles at me and sips the rum. Whatever.

I lean back and try to keep my vision straight. The seat squeaks again and Charles is right next to me, almost too close, eyes borrowing a hole into the far off ceiling.

"Charles, what's wrong. You've been acting weird for a while now." Not that I care. Cause I don't really. Raven just has a right to know and I have a right to not have him talking about weird ass shit all the time.

I can't quite identify the expression he has on right now.

"There's nothing wrong." His voice breaks on wrong.

"Bullshit." He just downs more of the rum and avoids the topic. He's been doing that a lot lately, and it's kinda ticking me off.

"I'm more concerned about you right now Erik, you're swaying a lot."

"Stop trying to change the subject." But now that he mentions it, the room is tilting rather like a boat. Is it the room or me?

Or maybe we're in some sort to alternate universe, where I have magical powers and people can communicate telepathically. That would certainly come in handy right now.

But he's distracting me. Back to his problems.

Knowing him it's not even that bad. Something totally blown out of proportion by his stupid head. He thinks too much. He's probably just had his thesis rejected.

Actually, that's probably it. The great mystery behind the last two weeks.

Poor guy, those scholarly types can be cruel.

"You know, it's okay to cry about it. I promise I won't even call you a faggot if you do." But I'll definitely think it. I pat his shoulder and chuckle.

He's looking at me like I've just said Patrick Stewart was a better captain.

"What?" Maybe I have something on my face. He just keeps staring with a dumb doe eyed look.

"You know?" Why is he whispering?

"I could guess. I mean, you've been on the computer none stop and acting weird. Not to mention getting sick all the time." Grad students. Don't know why they put themselves through it.

I mean, his whole life revolves around double helix's and chromosomes. Not exactly healthy.

He turns away quickly, but then back again. "Why haven't you said anything?" His voice is shaking. Why can't he be stronger than this. Almost makes me feel bad for him. It's just a paper.

"Well it's not really any of my business, plus I don't really know the details." Now he's rubbing his temples. "Jesus Charles, don't blow it out of proportion."

"How can I not? It's not like it'll just go away."

"It can if you-"

"And what do you mean it's not any of your business? I mean, we'll have to deal with it for a few months minimum." His voice is rising.

"Months?" It's going to take him months to get over this? I can't take another month of this. He's fucking bat shit crazy.

"At least you know. That's a load off my mind." He sighs and almost smiles. He ignored me.

"Months? It'll take that long for you to get over it? Come on Charles, just start over again and make them wish they hadn't rejected it in the first place."

"That's not how it works-wait-what are you talking about?"

"You're rejected thesis." Obviously. We've been talking about it for the past whatever minutes. I could be doing something better with my time. Like flirting with the lose woman on the dance floor.

I hear laughter. And not the normal kind. It sounds hysterical. Like someone's about to cry.

"What the hell Charles?"

"You thought that my thesis had been rejected? My thesis? I fine-tuned that thing to be near fucking perfect. I thought you were highly perceptive, but I guess I was off."

My fist clenches and I shove aside my glass. I faintly register the sound of glass shattering onto the sticky floor.

"Well then what the hell's been eating you for the past two weeks? And don't insult me." I feel like punching him. It's irrational and unfounded, but that booze sure can make you feel.

Charles settles into the seat and holds his head in his hands.

"I have cancer."

Raven and Hank are making out against the wall, and the others are dancing. They haven't heard.

I don't even think I heard.

"You shouldn't joke about something like that. It's fucked up." I really hope it's just that. Then I can laugh and tease him about his insensitivity.

Just deny it. But he's staring past me, looking at Raven and the others. He won't look at me and it just makes me angrier.

"Not joking." It's true. I know, he still won't look at me. It feels weird being told something so serious while drunk. I can't seem to voice any opinion what so ever. But my arms shake.

Denial and acceptance. He wouldn't joke about something like this. The signs too. Makes a hell of a lot more sense than the damn thesis thing.

He should've told me.

He didn't tell me.

I should've noticed.

For two weeks. I had two weeks, or at least that's what I can guess from his combination sad, guilty look.

My fist makes contact with something. For a second I'm afraid I'm being belligerent, but then realize its Charles' face that I've hit.

Good. He deserves it.

"Ah bloody hell Erik!" Charles clutches his nose.

"What the hell you doin' to my brother?" Raven stubbles over to the booth and comes between us. I'm standing now. Not sure when that happened.

As Raven nurses her sibling, cursing me under her breath, club patrons look at me wearily, and a horrifying thought crosses my mind.

"But what'll happen to your hair?"

* * *

><p>sorry this took so long. writers blockschool and work. its a hardnaughtlife

please review and kick my butt for not updating. it's great motivation.


	5. Writing and Fucking, Not the Same Thing

Chapter 5: Writing Your Feelings is Not the Same as Fucking

* * *

><p><em>Dear Erik,<em>

_ This is an apology. My colleague, Miss Frost, believes you are entitled to one. As a therapist, she also is under the impression that writing your feelings out before you articulate the finer points is supposed to be soothing. Well, that's what she says as she tries to hide some sort of smile as she reads my articulate agony. The joy she takes out of reading these is unsightly, but well, at least she likes her job._

_I'm sorry. I really am. But you were kind of a prick yourself. Hitting me and such. _

_But Miss Frost believes I should man up. Told me I should of clocked you back. Maybe I agree. But enough about you. I figure this has to be about me. Considering I'm the one who may die, and I'm the one who's fucked up. _

* * *

><p>Raven's crying. She's told her roommate, Angel, to leave for the night. I shouldn't of gone home with her and ruin her night like this. Just can't be with him. She won't even look at me.<p>

I cry. It's strange considering I'm crying not cause I may not be around to see _The Hobbit_, or for the _Chicago Cubs_ to win over the World Series, or even around long enough to be in love. They all seem good enough reasons to cry. No, I'm crying cause I don't want to be laughing.

Laughing at the fact that I'm going to lose the hair that I brush every morning knowing it's my best feature. Laughing that I rushed to finish by dissertation early, missed out on a lot of really great stuff (like frat parties, and beer pong, and just fun in general), and now I may not even finish it. Mostly laughing that the most important thing a few weeks ago was to make sure nobody could tell I really was into Erik.

"You need ice for your nose." Even through tears and snot, she's gentle. Pushing me back into her bed, and brushing back my hair cause I'm too numb. "I'll be right back."

It's hard for her to leave me. I suppose, it seems I may just disappear.

Or die.

* * *

><p><em>I don't like it when you call me a faggot all the time.<em>

_I know. Nothing to do with all this shit that's going down right? _

_It does. Maybe I would of told you if you seemed more understanding. Less of your macho welder facade, more of who you really are. That person that doesn't stare back at you in the mirror or roughly handles every person and situation when your favorite TV show is Sex in the City. No, the person that you just are. The one who doesn't have to say faggot when he's feeling a little uncomfortable._

_Miss. Frost believes that cancer makes everyone reflective, and a bit emotional. _

* * *

><p>"What are you going to do today?" It's cold out. So, "probably nothing."<p>

"I can't give you ride to your appointment," she's distressed. Wanted this, I know, to be there for her brother. Can't help that she can't miss another day of work, and the recession won't help her prospects. I can't say I'm not disappointed, or even a little resentful. Why the hell do I not have a car?

"Oh, that's okay. I have another lined up, I think."

Raven frowns, young enough not to have wrinkles, old enough to not say anything to the contrary. "I can bring you dinner though, afterwards."

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll be in the mood, to you know, eat." I finish tying my shoes, and feel almost up to pretending like everything is splendid. That instead of going to an appointment to plan life endangering surgery after teaching some simple chemical reactions, that I have a dental appointment cause I haven't been keeping up with my flossing. People would believe that. Blame it on my British genetics. "Thanks too. For letting me stay here and all."

"Anytime, ya know." I can still feel her hand rubbing my back through most of the night. "Erik is an asshole."

"Yeah." So am I. "It happens."

Instead of heading to my apartment, I just catch a bus straight to campus for my class. Erik isn't there. Raven ditches as well. And all eyes are on me, looking with not the glassy boredom their beady little pupils are usually displaying. Train-wrecks are way more interesting than biology.

* * *

><p><em>By emotional, I should probably expand.<em>

_ I feel nothing really. A nothing that's filled with a lot of things canceling out into nothing. It's pretentious stuff. I'm probably reading too much poetry._

_My class is under the impression that my new immensely, sad behavior stems from our apparent breakup._

_What forward thinking individuals. I am proud._

* * *

><p>Class ends. Nobody approaches me afterwards with apologies or grievances. I have a strange feeling none of them know anything.<p>

Another appointment. Still haven't gone home. It just wouldn't be the same. I'm not the same.

Raven is supposed to pick me up, and after the first hour of waiting I feel quite out of luck. What can go wrong will go wrong. Then my pocket vibrates.

"Nobody came in. Azazel needs me til close. Can't lose job. FML."

Fuck my life.

The skies grey, and the air is so cold its almost white. It's going to rain sleet, and maybe even snow. I can't walk the ten miles to Raven's apartment. Taking the bus seems viable. But I'm tired of wearing women's panties, and well, Erik is probably at work anyway. The problem with walking is that it gives me time to think about everything that's happening, going to happen, won't happen, and ultimately leave my head filled with white noise.

* * *

><p>"You're not at work." Erik is sitting on the couch in front of the television. His feet are in a pile of tin wrappers. "And you're watching the food network."<p>

"No shit."

He doesn't look at me as I walk across the room. Pretend that shit didn't go down last night. And that I don't have cancer, and pretend that I hadn't pretended that Erik, or Raven, or anyone, would ever have to find out. I just sit down next to him, and find myself staring at the little sliver shreds on the ground. 'Show enthusiasm in all that you do,' said the inside of the chocolate wrapper, while its neighbor replied with, 'Your smile is a gift.'

There's a little chocolate smudge in the crease of Erik's scowl.

"You ate all of my chocolate."

His frowned deepens.

"Did you even read Promises?"

He never looks away from the television.

"Jesus, Erik, that's the best part." I mean seriously, I save those things. " Like I'm trying to collect them all. So is Raven, and now I'm going to have to buy-"

"Charles. I read-"

"-a whole new bag. You know how expensive these are? Like a four-"

"Charles."

"-five dollars. I don't have that sorta-"

"Charles! I read them." Air brushes my face formed from the disturbance of Erik's hand closing in on it. I flinch. But instead of the punch I was expecting, there is just a brush over my swollen cheek. "This looks bad."

If that looks bad, than his face most be the definition of terrible. Regret does not accentuate Erik at all, and the years of labor in the sun, and smoking make for deep ridges and shadows across what should be a youthful face.

Memorizing the roughness of his hand before he withdraws it, I close my eyes and sigh. "Things in general just look bad."

His hand moves away from my face, and relieve washes over me. I was starting to lean into his calloused fingers. "How bad?"

"Uh," I swallow. "Well, from what I've gathered so far, and read is that these sort of things just depend on a large range of factors."

"A range of factors. A large range." Erik looks at me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I-" My voice wavers, and then ends. In that end, my first real thought in a while runs through my head. It's solid, and heavy, and it's been there this entire time just not clear, convoluted behind whisp-like whispers of thoughts. It's takes seconds for it to reach conception, but when it's there it comes out smooth and quiet. "I may die."

Out loud, it's a sentencing. Now it's a possible truth. An outcome that may be definite.

"Don't worry about it though, Erik." His stillness is frightening. I scoot over and start to rub his back in exaggerated circles. It feels invigorating to give reassurance rather than receive it. "The good doctor says that he'll do everything in his power to give me a fighting chance. Like maybe even a fifty fifty chance. Maybe even better."

"This isn't right." Erik is still, and only his mouth and his jaw move fitfully. "Your too young. Are you sure? You could of heard wrong."

* * *

><p><em>On that night we never got to talk about you hitting me, or me hitting you in a much less physical way. You know, with all the silence, followed by a marathon of True Life. I'm sorry. And you're forgiven.<em>

_ These sort of letters end with 'thanks' because as Miss Frost puts it, 'being appreciated is the best way to reconcile.' She reads Dove Promise messages as well._

_Thanks for the ride to my appointment on Monday. That was very thoughtful of you. Too bad your thoughtfulness ended when you pretty much assaulted Dr. Shaw._

* * *

><p><strong>So you should review cus man this shit is hard to write. Like seriously it got way personal for me on many different levels.<strong>

**Sorry for the bad grammar. I try, and really my redneck comes out everytime in refusal to believe communication needs guidelines and laws. **_  
><em>


	6. Unbalanced emotional state

I look away from the pile of clothes in the corner. I'll have to do the laundry soon, and take a shower before I see Charles.

The water's a nice reprieve from the draft floating over the floorboards. We could have easily had a nicer apartment in a better part of town. I refused. Now I have to contend with mold, drafts, and the occasional cockroach.

The muscles in my back feel tight. They're wound around each other in a massive knot of lactic acid, in coils like a rope. It's monstrous. Hunchbacked Igor. I rub at my neck and shoulders fitfully, willing the ache of a foreign mattress to leave my tissues. Hygiene is purifying. Detoxifies the body and cleanses the mind for the coming day. A clean slate.

I'm running late though, spent too much time in the shower so I have to skip the shave. Today I can't afford to be late.

I don the usual leather jacket and boots, the helmet. Usually I like the coarse feel of them on my skin, the image it reflects. Tough and intimidating. Today it feels like a vinyl costume.

I spot a Dove chocolate wrapper next to my bed. A remnant of the last couple days. It says "enjoy life's everyday gifts". Life's a shitty gift giver.

I walk out of the room, knocking on Charles' door as I pass by. My keys are on the couch, not the usual place. "Are you ready? We gotta leave now if you don't want to be late."

Charles walks out of his room in an oversized sweater. "I suppose." He closes the door. So did I, even though we never bothered before. His eyes look haggard, like he's had a restless sleep. Same here.

"Wouldn't want to be late." He gives me one of those looks, the one that I've seen on countless faces, accusation. "Where were you last night?"

No answer.

* * *

><p><em>There's a distinct smell to this situation. It's floating over the air in the room like a miasma, choking my senses and filling my lungs with lead. <em>

_And there's a certain look to it as well. It's all legs and dark hair, bruised skin and painted lips. _

_And there's a feeling. _

_Like rock in the pit of my stomach, a tight ball of numbness that sometimes feels like guilt. Which doesn't make sense because I'm not in the wrong. I'm not the one who hid having cancer from my best friend. _

_My mind keeps racing even as my body stays rooted to this bed. The caresses elicit shivers and goose bumps, sweat. The music in the back ground is annoying._

* * *

><p>"S-so, how does this all work? Like going to sleep right? That's how they always describe it on TV. I'm not going to wake up or anything right? Cause I tend to do that, insomnia and all."<p>

"No, Mr. Xavier. You're not going to wake up during the operation." The nurse offers a friendly smile, a reassuring hand.

Raven strokes Charles hair as he settles back down on the bed. He's not prepped yet, so he still has hair to pet.

"It's alright Charles." She doesn't sound too convinced. I'm on his other side, giving his hand a squeeze. I feel nauseous.

Charles looks down. "Erik, you know we still haven't tried that new restaurant on Brendan Street. It was on Dinners, Drive INS and Dives. We should go there. I know you don't like hamburgers much-"

"We'll go when this is all over okay?" He's a mess. Shaking, lips twitching whenever the nurse moves.

"Charles, mom called this morning, the weather's not too great in Winchester so her flight got cancelled." Raven whispers into his ear.

"Mom called, oh Jesus Christ, why didn't you tell me earlier? I mean-"

"Sorry, I had to get to work to tell off Azazel."

"How's our man doing? Not being too feisty are we Charles?" that voice sounds familiar.

"Doctor Shaw, my mother's not here, I don't think we can do this today. I mean, she'll want to be here to see me passed out and all…." Shaw. Shaw. I turn around.

"Erik, you okay?" Raven asks.

"Is that who I think it is? If it isn't little Erik Lensherr, all grown up." He walks over, extending a hand.

What the fuck.

"Erik you know the doctor?" I don't know who asked that. Maybe it was my subconscious. Yes. Yes I know him.

I hear a crunch noise. Like at the club. And the feel of pliable flesh sinking in under the force of my hand.

"Christ!"

"Erik what the hell!"

"Call security."

There's some blood on my hand. Shaw's moving away from me, holding his face, nose bleeding. Good. That mother fucker.

And I'm being pulled away, security badges near my face.

Raven looks pissed.

Charles looks like a creationist has just walked into the room and disproved evolution.

* * *

><p>"Erik, what the hell's your problem?"Spit and foam forms in the corners of her mouth and suddenly she's less attractive as she marches in front of me.<p>

"I thought you were working." She sits down next to me, her fists clenched. She wants to punch me.

"Like I'd really miss my brother's surgery." Her eyes are watery, ready to spill over. Today's been stressful.

I stare down at my hands; the knuckles are starting to hurt. There's a scratch on my index finger from when Shaw's glasses made contact with them.

"Why'd you have to fucking punch him? You have some kind of testosterone problem? Seriously, you've been doing too much of it." Yes. Too much testosterone, and adrenaline, and endorphins as my fist hit Shaw square in the cheek. Satisfaction. Endless amounts.

"Are they going to let me back in or do I have to sit here the whole damned time?" that's the only regret I have, that I had to be forcefully removed from Charles' hospital room. That he had looked horrified. That I hadn't been able to say anything before he went under.

She snorts. "Doubt it. You're lucky the hospital didn't call the police, or that Shaw chalked up your aggression to an 'unbalanced emotional state', which I know, is bullshit. Why'd you really sock him one?"

"Don't really feel like talking about it." I pull at my turtleneck, the room's too warm.

Raven stares. "Why were you at the apartment last night?"

Just like Charles' look this morning. I pull the material higher up my neck. "Why even ask. I'm sure Angel already told you."

Her lips purse, face contorting into a disapproving frown. She twists a strand of her hair around, an indecisive gesture. It's unlike her. "What do you want to say?"

"You gotta know how Charles, you know, feels about you. There's no way you don't."

I rub my face. Today has turned out more eventful then I originally anticipated. I only prepared myself for surgery. That's how I emotionally arranged myself. I knew Charles was getting surgery, that he has cancer. I'm prepared, if not pissed at the universe or whatever god there may be, for today. But I didn't anticipate Sebastian Shaw being his surgeon, or discussing Charles' feelings with Raven. It's too much.

"What of it?"

"Then why would you sleep with my roommate?" She jabs a finger at my chest, her voice rising above appropriate levels.

I hunch over, the weight of everything bending my back. "I don't know."

* * *

><p><em>I appreciate the effort that Angel has put into this. Candles light the room in a supposedly romantic mood and some soft music plays from an unknown source. I'm not a fan of candle light though. The dark suits me just fine. The detachment. So does the light if I'm feeling particularly daring and my partner is particularly attractive. But candle light's a strange middle ground. It casts disconcerting shadows over the ridges and curves of peoples' bodies. It also reminds me of Hanukkah. Menorahs and eight day old oil. <em>

"_Look, I don't know what's up with you and Charles, but…" she pauses, chews her lip a little. Her voice lowers. "I'm hearing- does he really have cancer?" _

_I don't answer. Just sit on the bed and I wind my fingers through the hair swept over her shoulder. I don't want to talk about Charles. I don't want to talk about anything. _

_She's responsive enough. Doesn't push for answers or attempts at romance. It's a relief. _

_The candle light makes her face dance in a twisted jig. I'm sure mine looks no different._

* * *

><p>Raven says the surgery could take up to ten hours. Seven or eight if it goes smoothly. I'd like to ask for myself, but I'm not allowed to leave the waiting area. There's a security guard sitting across from us.<p>

I've given up looking at the clock. Checking the damned thing every five minutes wasn't helping to relieve my growing anxiety. It's only been an hour and I feel like I'm going crazy, switching from boredom to, admittedly, crippling worry.

Raven brought a Kindle and is attempting to read something on it, but every few minutes I see her frown and look back up to the top of the device, re-reading the pages one or twice before moving on. I don't think we'll fare well for the rest of the time. I dearly hope we won't talk.

I pick up a People magazine off the table. Maybe the celebrity scandals and newborn baby pictures can capture my attention as well as they seem to capture national consciousness. I doubt it.

Raven's put her kindle down and is just staring at the wall. I follow her gaze and read a bright poster. How to Help your Loved Ones. There's bullet point after bullet point, but the print's too small for my eyes.

I look at the clock again. If I stare at the minute hand long enough, I can will it forward, and it works, until I remind myself that it's just because I've stared for a whole minute. Another hour's passed. It's going to be a long fucking day.

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow's Charles surgery. He isn't allowed to drink beforehand, so he's locked up in his room, numbing his mind with Wikipedia pages on every superhero and villain. I'm numbing mine with alcohol. So far it's only been a couple of beers, but the whiskey on the counter looks inviting. On the TV, women are screaming at each other, calling each other names and planning petty revenges based on stealing perfume and revealing each other's use of hemorrhoid cream. Scratch that, I'm numbing my mind with the Bad Girls Club. <em>

_Angel's been texting me for the last ten minutes, asking if I'm okay, how things are with Charles. She's worried about Raven. I respond after a swig of beer with one or two word answers. I've never been very good at texting. _

_I shouldn't drink too much though. I need to stop. I have to wake up early and take Charles to his appointment. That won't go over very well if I wake up with a hangover. I hope his surgery goes well, that the cancerous tumor in his brain gets wiped away by scalpels and chemotherapy. _

_Scalpels. They have to open up his head. Dig around it for hours and hopefully not prod the wrong nerve or mass of grey matter. And they have to shave his head. He's going to look so weird._

_And after all this, chemotherapy. Throwing up. Weakness, pain. Pretty much poisoning yourself to kill all those cancer cells. And any hair that grows back will probably fall off. _

_I get up and take a swig of whiskey. If Charles dies I won't be able to pay the rent, and be down a biology teacher, and a three year friendship. _

_"can i come over?"  
><em>

_"k."_

* * *

><p>"You should tell me why you hit Doctor Shaw." She wants to know, but I think it's an attempt to pass the time. It's dragging and we've got about four hours or so to go. "You know you delayed the surgery for like, a good hour." Another hour of Charles sitting in bed, staring off into space and losing his cool. I sigh, and already feel irritation and anger, my leg fidgets, bouncing up and down.<p>

"He was the surgeon who worked on my mother when she had her aneurysm."

Raven takes a while to form her next words. "That's a weird coincidence, but-"

"She died during the surgery."

"Oh."

"She didn't even make it out of the operating room. The thing just ruptured and put her into cardiac arrest. Fucking doctors didn't do a thing." I turn my helmet over in my hands.

"And Shaw comes out looking all contrite, saying there was nothing they could do, made us sign papers to save his and the hospitals ass. Left with a death certificate instead of a mother." Funny, my therapist said telling this to someone would help, make me feel better. Whatever that means. I still want to punch Shaw in the face, but now, in an alley or street corner where doing so won't get me kicked out of a friend's hospital room.

Raven doesn't say anything. She probably wants to tell me that harboring hate for Shaw is irrational, misplaced, a product of an unbalance emotional state. Same thing my therapist said.

Thought I forgave him years ago. Years of therapy with Ruth and repressed emotions. But when his eyes lit up in recognition and said 'If it isn't little Erik Lensherr, all grown up,' I hated him.

Raven pats my knee, but doesn't say anything. Good. I've already had people tell me that it's okay when it's not.

* * *

><p><em>We've spent all day avoiding talking about the surgery. Instead we watch shit TV and eat Dove chocolates, laughing at the promise messages. Charles saves each one though for his little collection. <em>

_He's put a bandage on the side of his nose, where the skin has split from the punch. I still don't say I'm sorry._

_We talk about class, Charles' dissertation, my plot to overthrow management at the company and hopefully add another figure to my salary. _

_He gets up after lunch and packs his hospital bag. When he isn't looking I put a framed picture of Einstein into it._

_Raven comes over later. She gives me dirty looks and flutters around Charles. She asks if he has everything he needs. Apologizes for not being able to go, and thanks me for taking him tomorrow. _

_They sit at the table, chatting and giggling, snorting. I sit on the couch and try to tune them out. It's a private moment for siblings. _

* * *

><p>"Dr. Shaw." Raven walks to the door. They talk in hushes. I make a move to stand, but the guard shoots me a look to sit back down.<p>

They walk towards me. "Feeling a bit more rational my friend?" he smiles, and I can see teeth. Tall and sharp, poking through his taught mouth.

Raven looks uncomfortable.

"Yes." I stand, and Shaw waves off the security officer.

"Wonderful. Now, you can come into the recovery room if you promise to behave yourself alright? Wouldn't want a repeat of earlier today." He's still smiling. Mocking. Humorous. It's a big laugh.

His face is bruised.

"Of course Doctor. Sorry about that." I gesture to his cheek, and his smile wavers slightly.

"Can we see him now?" Raven moves next to me, squeezes my hand.

"Yes, yes. He'll be under the influence of some very strong painkillers though, so he'll be a little foggy."

Raven's expressed herself in a myriad of ways. Thanking god, crying, laughing, squeezing his hand, examining his bandaged head, ensuring that the procedure has been done, that the tumor is no longing threatening her brother's brain. She talks to the nurse and Shaw, while I sit in the burgundy colored chair next to the window, examining the heart monitor, looking over the clipboard detailing Charles' condition. I don't understand anything on it.

"Erik." I glance up.

"I'm gonna get some coffee from the cafeteria, you want some?"

"Sure." I smile. We both do. Shaw and the nurse leave, rather not stay with the man who punches doctors.

When she's gone I move to the edge of the bed. His head is wrapped in gauze and medical tape. I can't see if my suspicions on his baldness are true. For all I know, there's still hair under all those layers.

He hasn't woken up yet. His eyelids flutter, his eyes move fitfully from side to side. It means he's alive, dreaming and asleep, like any other night. Except now it's in a hospital bed, wearing a backless paper nightgown with a catheter shoved up his urethra. And he'll be here awhile, this room will be home for at least a week, and he'll have to go to speech and physical therapy to make sure that there're no complications. No irreversible effects like being blind or losing motor function in his right hand.

I get up and locate his bag. I pull out that picture of Einstein and place it on the nightstand. At least now this place is bearable.

He takes in a particularly long breath and suddenly it feels really quite. The cafeteria's on the other side of the hospital, so Raven will be awhile. I want to say something to her, to Charles.

"Sorry I punched you in the face, even if you deserved it." Whispered.

"Glad you made it, though now I guess I'll have to remove my ad for a new roommate on Craig's list."

"…..But seriously, glad you're alive. You better not have any complications afterward. Raven would be crushed. She keeps crying."

I look out the window. It's starting to get dark. "I went to her apartment last night. Probably cause I was drunk. Saw Angel. Kinda makes me feel like a dirty old man. She's really young. Raven asked me why I was there. She seems mad that I was. Probably because she's your sister. Because you've got it in your head that you find me attractive." Charles of course doesn't respond.

"Good taste on your part. I'm good looking, intelligent, have a career and charisma."

"Sorry I wasn't at the apartment last night. Ass move. You can call me names when you wake up."

Raven enters with two cups of coffee.

* * *

><p>. italics are the past night. review please<p> 


	7. Cold Waters and Pink Hats

Author Notes at the End

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven: Cold Waters and Pink Hats<p>

* * *

><p>I want to touch it.<p>

The stitches that itch late at night. The white line that no hair dares grow near that runs through Raven's left eyebrow. The red patches that bubble over Erik's forearms, scars from metallic sparks.

But touching comes after I can open my eyes.

My head feels tight. Like twine has been wrapped around it in infinite loops, expanding past genius world records

* * *

><p>"Fuck you, Erik." Raven.<p>

"I'm just saying we don't know how he'll look bald. I mean, sometimes that part of our body looks practically alien." Erik. "At least he'll get a green card."

* * *

><p>Sleeping this long is terribly selfish. They are still charging me tuition. I forgot to put the bookmark in before I left; now I won't know what page I'm on. The coffee maker was never turned off, now I'm no longer green. My carbon footprint is still growing as I lay doped on morphine and other unpronounceable medications that I'd probably need a chemistry major to even contemplate understanding the effects on the human body. Erik probably won't separate the plastic from the cans. We will be ticketed. That's just embarrassing.<p>

The doctor comes to check in regularly. My eyes flutter and my brain flickers, but there's some awareness somewhere. I hear "success."

Soon followed by, "but this was the easy part. At least for Charles."

"Mhhhmm. Why you soooo sexy-" I remember saying after noticing Erik's hand on mine.

* * *

><p>What I don't remember rambling about after morphine was slithering through my veins, that was later filled in by Raven, goes something like this, "Wow. It's, uhm, like floating but through space but with no laws, you like, Kepler and the other chap, uh, Newton? And your thoughts, are like here, in this place. Erik, why are you always nicer in that place? And wearing purple-"<p>

Now what I shouldn't have said included telling my mother in front of a room full of nurses and Erik, was my ever so merry pining over said roommate and how it's all over now that my best feature is shaved away. I believe I was crying.

* * *

><p>"It's cold." But it's not. And Erik tucks the blanket under my feet muttering about heat being lost from the head. This is the most lucid things have been for days. "You can leave."<p>

Raven and mom have already left, both sleeping at the hotel across the street. Probably sharing a bed even through there are two, and probably not even sleeping. Talking. They like to talk. "I'm good here."

Chapped lips. I want to touch them. But I won't. "You have to work tomorrow."

"Coffee's free here." Erik shrugs, and looks quite tired with his leather jacket as a blanket. "Plus I might take some of the vacation time I've been putting off."

"You deserve it. I suppose this is my vacation." I frown. "I forgot to proof read Hank's paper."

Erik snorts. "I'm sure he'll forgive you."

"It's for that creative writing class though." He never finished his elective credits. Should have taken pottery, or appreciation of music. "I love him. But his talents lie elsewhere. It's like bad Star Trek fanfiction, with communism and a long explanation of how string theory means that the two lovers could possibly be doing the dirty on the fourth dimension."

"I'm happy you're coherent."

"If that's what you call babbling about Star Trek fanfiction, I agree." I smile.

"I mean," Erik looks at me, his constant sun burn fading from the soft touch of the hospital fluorescences. "I'm happy you're feeling better."

'For now' doesn't seem like an appropriate answer, so I let it drop with a smile I hope is pleasant and a silence that should come off as natural. I just want him to relax. At least before the wrinkles between his eyebrows stick, making him even more devilishly handsome in that blue collar I-can-make-you-cream-your-pants-as-I-do-your-plumbing sort of way. "Yeah, me too."

Coherency is a good step, truth be told. Especially after three days of not knowing the difference between reality and dreaming, being caught in the seams of the two. I swear Erik at one point was bending metal spoons from the cafeteria, and the Raven under the right light was a little blue.

"So, when will you be out?" Erik shuffles his body from one side of the chair to the other. "The staff here apparently believes the less information I know, the less of a liability I am to your recovery. Living together apparently means nothing, fuckers."

"Doctor Shaw is under the impression I'm going home with my mother." I say, "I love her, but well-"

"Yeah," He knows.

My stepfather's still around, and the black eye that followed me home after a very unpleasant holiday is all Erik needs to understand the state of my home-life.

"I could always stay with Raven, I'm sure Hank won't mind competing for the sofa. " Yeah, I know, but I'd rather not say anything about Raven's se-love life out-load. "Plus Angel's always been one of my favorite of Raven's friends. Or there's always-"

"Why can't you just stay at our place?" I wouldn't say he looked angry. Don't want to misread it has hurt. I tend to be presumptuous. "I mean, your bed and stuff is there."

It's not like I haven't thought of the obvious. Just because my life was going to be on hold, or over, doesn't mean his had to be as well. Raven didn't either, but she is in a more stable and less stressful position at the moment. Not trying to start a business, while finishing school. "You don't need this."

"No, but I want it," I try my best to hide my skepticism, but my one cocked eyebrow probably gives it away. "I mean, I can help. I want to help. Shit, Charles, your my closest friend," probably his only friend, "and sleeping on the couch after radiation?"

The distress seems sincere. "Well, Raven's under the impression that she'll be on the sofa, but I couldn't let that happen."

"Charles."

"Erik, this is going to be hard. And you're under no obligation to be here for this you know."

"I know. I want to be."

"I can't let you put yourself through this alone." His face is red, and at the moment he might propel out of the chair across the room. "Charles, don't be a dumbass. If I had to I'd change your fucking diapers. Fuck, I'd do it with a smile on my face."

"That's kinky." Raven says, and walks through the door. I hope she's heard everything, seeing that diaper changing wouldn't be the best sex act to be associated with by your sister. "And I agree with Erik."

She passes one of the coffees to Erik, "Mom wanted her little Charlie's domestic partner to have a cappuccino." Apparently even those most loathed homosexuals, and Erik, deserve a coffee as well.

"Isn't a doctor supposed to come in, and tell you guys to let me have my rest?"

Raven snorts, "Well, you can thank Erik for that. Staff is a little too scared to check in more than minimum."

"I apologized," Erik shrugs sipping at his coffee.

"I don't think what you did counts."

Maybe if I just fall into a drugged sleep they will leave. I press the nice, big button for more morphine. It's just a matter of time. "Hm. This is nice," I say, "family time."

"Too bad your mom is too busy groveling to my father about spending a bit of the family fortune on her sickly son. Apparently, it was meant for that yacht with a three fireplaces."

Erik laughs, "I suppose one fire place will do."

"What an ass." Raven says. "Sometimes I really don't know how I could have come from the same person."

I agree, as my eyes close. Something about having your head bound tightly with bandages is comforting. Now only if they'd take the catheter out this would be real nice.

"So, it's decided." Raven says, unaware that I have not decided anything. "Charles will live with you until I deem you unfit, and must intervene."

I wonder when the doctor is supposed to come in and tell them I need my rest. "Hm. Sleepy."

* * *

><p>For the first time in a long time I don't dream of dying.<p>

* * *

><p>"Charles baby, do you need anything?" I shake my head, no. "Water? No? Some ice-cream? A book? Nothing, really?"<p>

"Yeah, nothing mum." Mum's hair is immaculately curled, but her eyeliner is dark and uneven making her seem even more owlish. Kurt has just torn her apart over the phone, her eyes red and watery. He doesn't care very much for his gay stepson, who ran off to become a biology professor. Blames me, instead of the alcohol or the verbal abuse, for Raven following as soon as she graduated high school. "You should go back to the room and rest."

"I've had quite a bit, enough resting." Her accents much thicker than mine, as well as her stubborn will power. If she hadn't married so young, and had finished grad school instead of my father than spending too much time and energy on Kurt, she would have been an excellent philanthropist. "You're my son, and I'm going to be right for you."

Raven told me she quit drinking a year ago. But I can't help but think the hand over mine was nursing a cup of scotch not so long ago. "Sure." We lapse into silence; Mum's hand just resting off mine like this was a normal occurrence in the Xavier household over the years.

I end up wishing that Erik didn't have to check into work, or that Raven needed to attend classes. Of course it's not long before her nervous laughter gets the best of her. "You know this whole situation got me thinking, well, more reflecting on some strange happenings back at the estate," It's not really an estate, just a really big family property, "and, well, it's ironic you know-"

I let her go on, and well, on. It's about her friends, and some distant family, and the curiousness's that occur when one is a human being, and how maybe this is a sign to find god, and really cannot fathom the importance of what Mum is babbling about, except, maybe it makes her feel better. I'd like that. Mum deserves that.

"I think we should all spend Christmas back at the estate."

No. No. No. No.

"It will be fun. Kurt will have some of his work friends over. You can bring, well if you have one, special, ya know. And it will be a family affair." She smiles.

"Mum, I don't think that's a good idea."

She doesn't fight me, just sighs. It's a sad one. "Yeah, you're probably right."

I never wanted to be.

* * *

><p>The thing about finding out you have a brain tumor is that time may feel like it has stopped for a moment, like life is over or on pause, but it hasn't. It's like I've been asleep this entire time between the time I heard the news, till I came home from my surgery. Walking up with bandages chaffing your bald head and a hard-on for your arsehole roommate, is not the same as finding out you've been living in the Matrix or Limbo or something , but I'm sure at least there's more dignity in both.<p>

My phone rings, more like sings the theme of MoonRacker. It's the similar jaws of stainless steel that associates Erik with that one villain. "Hm?"

"I can't believe that's your ringtone." He's breathy, and in the other room. "I mean that is the worse Bond theme, besides Diamonds Are Forever."

"You're a sick, sick person."

"Dinner's ready." Trying to fatten me up before the beginning of radiation tomorrow.

"Next time just bring it up, it's the polite thing to do." I hangup. More like press End on the screen for I have given in to the Iphone craze. I'm buried under papers, still working on my dissertation, but not my laptop because the good old doctor insists that I need my rest and Erik may hate Shaw but apparently not enough to disregard his duty to my welfare.

Oh, and yeah. That conversation where I ask awkwardly about Erik punching Shaw before my surgery? It happened sort of like this:

_Setting: The toasty cell of a hospice room. A bed slightly skewed from the middle. Young Charles, out of surgery. Delirious on pain killers and the sudden presence of his suave but all too distant, dashingly handsome roommate at his bedside. The roommate, Erik, sits with his usual slouch, as if he had the whole world on his shoulders and the only way to bare it was through poor posture._

_Charles (concerned, but still full of posh dignity): Erik, I heard about what happened with Shaw, and well, I understand._

_Erik: Do you?_

_Charles (the lack of intent is, dare say, bewildering to a man of usual great understanding, he is at a loss for words): Um, well, yes-_

_Erik: It's just for all these years I could only blame the death of my mother on one person, and that one person is, Doctor Sebastian Shaw._

_Charles (now moderately irate): Wasn't it an accident?_

_Erik: That may be the case, but it was surely all Shaw's doing. His cruelty knows no bounds. He is a man only satisfied by the suffering of others. Mostly he gets off by killing small children's' mothers by poking holes into their brains._

_Scene Ends with dramatic gasps, and Erik cries on Charles' pillow._

* * *

><p>"This is lovely. Next time I can eat at the table though." My papers are now replaced with a tray. A tray that is occupied with a bowl of soup, a small vase with a wilting flower held captive, and a croissant that is half gone, left only with suspicious bite marks. No sarcasm, just a quick smile to the hard working chief. "Dinner is meant to be eaten at the table. But it is quite romantic being feed in bed."<p>

"Only for you, Charles." Bout broke my heart, if there wasn't a hint of non-amusement. "Eat it up."

In-between slurps of soup. "How's the bio class going?"

"Not the same without you." Erik sits next to me on the full side bed that feels too full considering we are unable not to lean onto each other. "Moira actually comes to class, and god, I just don't appreciate her particular attitude. I know you like her, but you're a better teacher."

"I'll take this as a compliment even though you just insulted one of my closest friends."

"You should. I mean it."

"And when I say that I'm allowed to eat solid food and I'm even recommended to exercise not to mention get out of bed, I mean it." That came off as a lot more irritated than usual. I try not to look at Erik, even as he shuffles closer to the edge of the bed. "Sorry, it's just being in this room for a week after the hospital for so long. I'm sorry. It's leaving me on edge."

Erik looks at my soup, and then at me. And then back at the soup. "I suppose you could do that tantric yoga thing."

He's referring to the pamphlet that Angel had given him in class while I was recovering in the hospital. As a yoga instructor at the local studio, she took it upon herself to recommend her own class for people focusing in getting through prolonged illness.

Prolonged seems like an understatement. By the time I go into radiation I'll have grown back some hair, only to suffer a tragic fate. All because of some crazy gene mutation.

"That sounds interesting." I sound bitter. "Don't you have to be at work?"

"Hm. Not till tomorrow." Erik says a little sharp.

"You took off a lot of time, is that alright?"

Erik smiles. He hadn't done that a lot since I came back home. Or, really ever. Generally, it's more like a smirk. "I haven't used any vacation time in the three years I've lived here. I've been told it adds up after a while, plus I'm the best they have. Don't want to get rid of the best, so the competition doesn't scoop it up."

Or start his own welding company. "Well, if that's so. Let's do that yoga thing right now."

"What? Isn't it too late?"

"You've been feeding me dinner at three in the afternoon."

"There was never any complaint." Erik seems taken back.

I finish the soup, and move on to the croissant. "I'm a polite person."

"Says the man who compared my soup to lukewarm piss. And I suppose I can take us to yoga even though it's past your bedtime."

"Damn my bedtime."

* * *

><p>Erik leaves me his beanie on the kitchen table. "Your head will get cold," he says before he leaves to pull the motorcycle up front. Apparently I've recovered enough to hold on to the back of a bike, but not stay up past eight.<p>

It's a light pink color, the hat, and it luckily fits over the bandages so they're mostly covered. Too bad pink makes me look like a teenage girlie, while Erik could be cross dressing and still look like a lion tamer or something else ridiculously masculine. And sexy.

Cookies are set on the counter. Solid, sugary food. I eat seven of them before Erik yells up the hallway that we are ready to go. Regret and a little bit of shame, when Erik has to pull over to let me puke. Considering it has nothing to do with the radiation that's starting tomorrow, and everything to do with motion sickness.

At least the hat is warm.

* * *

><p>Damn tantric, torture set upon myself to escape the room.<p>

"Charles you're doing so well." Angel says as she pushes on my back helping to get into some position that involves back popping. "You're quite flexible."

"All your lies and flattery are wasted on me. Don't grade your papers anymore, remember?"

Of course Erik is a genius at yoga, his skinny form easily malleable. He grins at nobody as he bends to touch his feet, and if that isn't unpleasant enough, he puts his head through his legs. Either a weird sex thing or a challenge. A challenge that involves me letting Angel popping my back till I'm making indecisive, whiney moans. "There," Angel takes this as a good sign. "Don't you feel all the energy following. It heals, ya know?" I withhold any comment on the benefits of the Biology class that Angel seems to be missing, and just smile through more weight expanding my spine.

Until today I thought I looked bad. Walking into a class full of chronically, terminally, or just plain old ill yoga pursuers should have been comforting in that comparative way. It wasn't.

I try not to talk to anyone, avoid them eyeing the newcomer and his obviously healthy and quite athletic support. On the way out I count myself lucky that only one weepy eyed woman had approached me to tell me about the wonders of staying active through her pancreatic cancer treatment. Apparently it did some good for her social life. I tried not to compare our diagnoses, and the oddity of feeling like the lucky one in the lethal game of probability. "Well, I hope to see you next week."

"I can't wait. See you then." I lie through my teeth knowing that next week in the middle round of treatment I won't be going anywhere, much less a room full of decaying bodies twisting and contorting into ungodly shapes. Erik stands next to me, frowning and says, "You need to call Raven when we get back."

* * *

><p>"Charles, your clothes are on." Erik says. "And your bandages are getting wet."<p>

The water overfilling the tub is cold, and the beer in my hand, because Erik dumped all the hard liquor down the sink a week ago, has left a frothy stale taste in my mouth. "Also the lights are off. The toilet seat is up. And you are wearing mismatched socks."

Erik looks down at me. I look away from him. He turns off the water, and throws down two towels from the closet to mop up the water from the floor after collecting empty beer bottles. The silence is unnerving even for the man who jumped into a freezing cold tub with his clothing on after going through one and half six packs of beer.

"Erik."

"Hm?"

My ears pop, pressure buzzing away in my head. Fingers sore from gripping the sides of the tub, I try not to shake.

"I'm cold."

For a brief second his hand rest on mine.

"Then get out of the fucking tub." I nod 'cause that probably makes sense and stand up.

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

Review! Review! Review! Cus i like those even if there negative.

I just got in a shit load of trouble with the university. It made my update kind of slow.


	8. Awkward Physical Contact

There's some sort of splashing sound. I mute the computer. The tub sounds like its running, guess Charles is taking a bath. I never seem to have time for those anymore. I turn up the speakers, listen to something moody. This is how I'm spending a Saturday night, illegally downloaded TV shows and Pandora. I need a beer.

I go out into the hall way, and water's seeping from the bathroom. I can hear Charles mumbling on the other side. It's like tunnel vision as I make for the door, walking slowly for some reason, the trickle of the faucet resounding louder than it should. When I turn the door knob that strange fog of Déjà vu settles over me. It's like me and Ruth in the middle of the night creeping to the bathroom, pounding on the door, dad never opening it.

I walk into a puddle, push the door open, and thank god it's not locked. That's never a good sign.

"Charles, your clothes are on. And your bandages are getting wet." These are what tumble out of my mouth, rather than some sort of demand or curse. An expletive. "Also the lights are off. The toilet seat is up. And you are wearing mismatched socks." It doesn't make any sense. He always wears stripped Tweed socks. These look like Raven's.

There's a beer in his hand. At least it's not whiskey and a bottle of antidepressants, but damn it I should have fucking dumped those.

I turn off the tap and grab brown bottles off the floor. Charles just watches me, his eyes glazed. It's almost scary. Devoid. It makes me angry. The bottles make a harsh sound as they crash against the tin of the garbage. Charles doesn't say anything. Defend the situation. Offer explanation.

I grab towels from the hall. My foot guides them through the mess, the flood seeping through the tile and wood. I am a mop. The floor's still wet by the time the towels are swollen. "Erik."

I look up. He's watching me. "Hmm?"

"I'm cold." I walk over and look him in the eye, put my hand on his. Physical contact is comforting, that's what all the books say. But, I'm not sure if it's me comforting him or the other way around.

"Then get out of the fucking tub." He nods and stands. Water gushes out of the bath and back onto the floor. He's shivering. I grab his shoulders and help him out.

He drips all over the hallway as we make it to his bedroom. I open the door; close it when he gets in and walk to the hall closet and grab the last towel. I knock a couple times.

"Here." Charles opens the door and takes it. He stares at me for a second, like he's going to say something. "Dry off." Beat him to it. I go to my room and shut the door a little too loudly and just listen. Barely a breath or movement. I hear the sound of something wet hit the ground, a couple swears. Maybe even something that could pass for a sob.

I slide down the wall. My hands find their way to my hair and pull in different directions. Inhale. Exhale.

His head wasn't under the water; it didn't even look like it might be slipping, so whatever just happened wasn't a suicide attempt. Charles wouldn't anyway. Too much to do. Papers to grade, medical journals to read, the premier of The Hobbit, the chance to finally tell me about his crush.

* * *

><p>This whole cancer thing is making me sentimental.<p>

First, there's the Shaw reunion.

In the lulls between Charles conscious hours in the hospital I thought about my family. I thought about how I hated Shaw, about how long it's been since I last saw him. How long it's been since my mother died.

Course, those thoughts then irreversibly led to memories.

How my mother and Ruth would fry potato pancakes in the kitchen, mom singing some hymn. That was how she incorporated religion into the everyday. Not that my father cared for it. He was one of those 'let's blend in and change our last name to something more Anglo-Saxon' Jews. They fought about it sometimes. When she died though, he saw fit to follow.

Thinking about my family goes hand in hand with thinking about death. My family was taken away by some malicious man in a white coat. No god. Just an evil man.

But just on the cusp of all my angers and anxieties lately is Charles.

I don't voice it. I never will because saying the words is like giving them a power, validity. There's a real chance that Charles might die. Even if he gets to remission there's a possibility that the cancer comes back later, I've seen the movies, the TV specials.

Then there's last night. That stunt with the bathtub.

Now I worry that he might be going crazy, and if not exactly crazy, then close, that anxiety and stress level that just pushes some people over the edge.

"Erik."

I look up. Things come back into focus, the TV, the remote in my hand, and Charles skirting around the living room furniture like some small animal.

"Hmm?"

"Erik last night…..ah hell last night, I'm sorry. I don't know-I can't-"

"Charles." He looks at me and this time his expression says something, is alive with something. "You look like hell."

He croaks a nervous laugh. "Yeah well, I didn't want to go into the bathroom this morning." He's got just a hint of stubble.

"Me neither." He sizes me up and decides to walk over and sink into the couch. There's a lump forming in my throat, one big ball of vocal emotion, but it all comes out in a whisper. "Charles I don't know what the hell last night was about, but you don't have to try to explain it to me. I probably won't understand." I look up at the ceiling. "Just don't try pulling anything like that again." I blink a couple times because I wasn't expecting a talk. "I'm not buying us anymore alcohol so get used to the sober life."

"Yeah." Charles lays his hand over mine, rubs circles there. I don't pull away because physical contact is comforting, just like all the books say. "Drinking hasn't been all that great for me lately anyway." We sit and listen to the TV for a while, but it occurs to me that this situation is completely flipped. I'm a bastard. A bastard because I'm not the one who had a breakdown. I'm supposed to be taking care of him through this shit.

"So, you're alright and everything?" I move my hand.

His eyes linger where it was for a second. "Just have a small headache. I'm also dreading my next session with Frost. Definitely going to be some psychoanalysis about suicide-not that that was what I was trying to do. I don't even know what I was doing-"

"Like I said, just don't do it again." I pat his shoulder. Give him a side hug that feels so incredibly awkward, it's palpable. "Any requests for breakfast? We're fully stocked with Campbell's'. "

"Actually I was kind of hoping for something solid. The cancer hasn't affected my ability to chew you know."

"Not gonna happen after you threw up before yoga. I saw the cookie crumbs on your jacket." I go into the kitchen, dig around the cupboards. We need to go shopping again.

"I called Raven last night."

"Yeah?" I wonder if she ever told him about Angel.

"Well she's all worried, kept insisting that I stay with her."

I turn around. Cross my arms and lean against the countertop. "You live here. You're a grown man Charles; you can take care of yourself."

"I'd like to believe that. But-"

"And when you can't I will." I grab a pot and boil some water.

* * *

><p>"How're you doing Erik?" Ruth's voice is so small over the phone; I have to turn up the volume.<p>

"Alright, you know… same old same old." Edgy. I'm on batshit crazy alert five.

"Hmm, how' Charles doing?"

"Oh him….. he's fine, won't stop grading papers, I think he has some sort of idea that he's going to change the world, one student at a time."

"Erik."

"What is it, you usually never call." I stretch out my legs.

"I just heard about your run in with Shaw."

Damn.

Course she heard. Forgot her husband's a janitor there. Rather, as she puts it, custodian. Like the word changes what he does.

I rub at my eyes. "Yeah I gave him a good punch to the face. It's not a rumor or anything."

"I didn't think it was. Sounded exactly like something you'd do."

"Did you know he was working there?"

"….yes."

"Course you did."

"Are you in trouble or anything because of it? I could go in, you know, maybe ask to see him, talk him out of anything legal-"

"No. No, the bastard excused my behavior. He doesn't want to press charges against the man whose mother died from brain surgery and whose friend was going into brain surgery." My hands are shaking. I roll over to the desk and turn on the computer monitor. Need a distraction.

"Oh- wait, what? You had a friend in surgery? Are they okay? I mean, I know complications are rare and everything- oh god it wasn't Charles was it? What am I asking, course it was. What other friends do you have?"

"Calm down. And I resent that. I have other friends, just none that I'd like to introduce to you." She snorts.

"Whatever. What's wrong with him, he's okay right?"

"Yeah he's fine, just got a stupid bandage wrapped round his head." I Google noodle recipes. "He's got brain cancer- had a tumor in his head."

"Oh my god, that's awful. I'm so sorry." Everyone's been saying sorry. I didn't really understand why. I'm not the one sick. But after that night I think I get it. _Sorry it's you who has to be there._ "I couldn't even imagine what you two must be going through. I hope he gets better. What does he have exactly?" There was a bit of inflection at the end of that sentiment that sounded doubtful. It is cancer after all.

"Meningiomas. It's pretty rare, especially in men, but all the stuff I've read about it say they're usually benign. Course that's not Charles case. He had to get stuck with the cancerous kind." Google reveals page after page of noodle recipes. Charles wants to play daredevil and move onto solids. Asian noodles, Italian noodles, German noodles. They all sound gag reflex worthy. At least for a chemo patient.

Hell, I'll probably end up making chicken noodle for the next damn week.

"Erik, how're you doing with this? You're alright right? I don't want you stressing yourself too much."

"When did you start getting all concerned about me? It's my job to take care of you."

"It used to be. Just be careful okay? I don't want you to breakdown or anything. You don't usually handle these sort of things too well."

"No I don't, not when it's easily avoidable." I stare at a family photo on the nightstand.

Silence.

"And you make it sound like he's going to die, cause he's not. He'll be fine." He will be.

"I'm sure he will. I know he will." If only I could be convinced.

"….Well, other than the cancer, how are things going between you two?"

My pulse has gone up in the last few minutes. Taking too Ruth's always been strenuous. "Normal considering. Haven't fought too much, though, we disagree over how to approach his homecare."

"Take it easy. You don't want to drive him away with your smothering. He's a good catch."

"Yeah well, he's a pretty damn good roommate, I gotta admit. Didn't think we'd get so close though." I still don't regret the friendship now that it's so painful.

"Yeah, you have. I mean I didn't peg you as the type, what with mom being so orthodox but I figure it's the 21st century and I'm glad you found someone."

"What're you-ah. You've got the wrong idea." Everyone seems to come to the same conclusion.

"Sure I do. Just take care of each other okay? I'll visit soon, bring some tea for Charles. I know those Brits like that. Plus tea's got all those health benefits. It's gotta help, certainly can't do any harm."

"Yeah."

"Love you."

"Me too."

"He'll be fine. You'll take good care of him, I'm sure." Last person I took care of ran off as soon as she turned eighteen and only calls every few months.

"Take care of yourself Ruth."

"…Tell Charles I hope he gets better."

"Mmhmm."

"See you around."

I hear the phone click. She won't visit. She wants independence, convinced that she was going to get it through matrimony. I hit the monitor button. Get up and throw the phone onto the bed. Walk out of the room and see Charles on the couch watching TV. There's a half-eaten Twinkie on the coffee table. I need to find his stash.

"Who were you talking too." he gives me a sidelong glance.

"Ruth, she heard about the whole Shaw thing."

"Oh. How'd that go over?"

"Fine. Not anything too dramatic" 'Cept she's got it in her head that we're together. "I told her about, you know. She hopes you get better."

"That's sweet of her. Tell her thanks." Charles opens up his laptop. He's smiling, the corners of his mouth wrinkling upwards. I think about mentioning how Ruth thinks we're together. It's kind of funny. We've had all sorts of neighbors think the same thing. Crazy coincidence huh? Then we'll laugh.

Charles types something, and the sound of the keys makes me realize that I've been staring. I reach for the remote and turn to Fox. Something will come on to distract me from, from whatevers going on in my head.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry about this taking so long. life got in the way and motivation was lacking, so review please cause it definately helps<strong>


End file.
